


Stare into the Void

by Miah_Arthur



Series: Bad Things Happen [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Inner Dialogue, Sensory Deprivation, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Lucifer died at the end of St. Lucifer. Death was only the beginning. Alone with his own mind is the worst torture yet.
Series: Bad Things Happen [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738765
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Stare into the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Thank to my beta: RootPatterson
> 
> This will be a series of inter-related prompt fills based on the Bad Things Happen Bingo card I received. [My card!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/617681881360695296/here-is-your-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo)
> 
> This place is great! Bingo cards for everyone! [Bad Things Happen Bingo](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/)

#  **Stare into the Void**

Awareness returned to Lucifer. He was no longer 'dead,' but he saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. Smelled nothing. Tasted nothing. He tried to move, to know where his limbs were, but nothing.

He was awake. 

But nothing beyond his mind existed. 

He died. His soul separated from his body by a bullet. He died from a demon dagger plunging into his heart. He died from the agony of acid boiling through his eyeballs. He died choking on mites. 

His lack of sight made sense. He had no eyes. 

He waited. 

The voices in his mind, the ones he drowned out with distractions and sensations and experiences, nothing held them back. He was nothing, and they shouted into that void.

_Evil! Aberration. Prince of lies. Heretic. Belial. Filthy. Abomination._

Sparks of color flashed around him. Dots and jagged lines danced in front of him, and they were beautiful. Music floated through the void, ethereal and haunting, and the lights danced to the beat. His own thoughts grew sluggish.

_Corrupter. Destroyer. Polluter. Worthless one. Broken._

Images, not of his choosing, supplanted the colored lights. Terrified screaming of his victims replaced the music and the voices shouted at him all the louder. 

_Deviant. Defective. Monster. Rebel. False son._

Pain ghosted over his non-existent body. Bright flares and dots, dancing as the lights had before. It wasn't real. None of it was real. _He_ wasn't real. 

_Traitor. Anathema. Desecration. Failure. Liar._

I never lie. I never lie! He shouted with no tongue and no voice, and he wept with no eyes.

_Profaner. Cast down and chained. Dirty. Defiled. Disgrace._

Please. Please. Anything. Anything to be real again, but nothing answered him. No sight, sound, touch, taste, or scent. Even the dancing sparks of pain have abandoned him. 

_Wretched waste. Corrupt. Degenerate. Debased. Miscreation. Purposeless._

He screamed into the void and imagined he heard a faint echo under the voices. He screamed again and again, the echo was real. It had to be real. If it was real, he could be real again, and the voices could be pushed down. Down and away, under his senses. But the echo was faint, and the voices shouted all the louder. 

_Sinner. Destroyer of Divinity. Torturer. Tainted. Punisher. Poison. Samael._

That is not my name! That is not me! But it was his name. It was him. It was all he ever had been and all he ever would be, and no faint echo could push that away. 

_Twice forsaken. Unclaimed. Refuse. Offal._

Something was wrong.

He died.

He died, and Amenadiel should have come to get him by now, but he was still dead. They wouldn't leave him like this. They couldn't. Hell needed supervision.

Demons. 

Watching him choke and die. 

Were they still watching? Did his body still exist in some form? 

The mites. The mites had eaten him. 

He flailed his arms and legs and-and he _had_ arms and legs now. Dim, faint, echoes of limbs to go with the dim, faint echoes of sounds. They were real.

They were real. 

He thrashed and flailed and fingers existed and they found purchase in ash and gravel and the voices receded.

He screamed into the black and his voice grew louder than theirs. 

They clamored at him. Clawing. Pulling. Waiting for him to tire, to lose his tenuous grip on the world outside his mind. Pain rushed through him as nerves and tissue and skin reformed. 

And it was good. Good to hurt. Good to scream.


End file.
